Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“Do you mind telling me what you know of Lucinda Frothingale?”

“I get letters from my siblings and my parents. Genny occasionally tells me which ladies manage to snag you, if but for a little while, since you’re fickle. Well? Did Lucinda finally manage to get a hook in your mouth?” She tossed him another impudent grin, and with that grin, he suddenly saw her father’s face. He waved away her words. It was hard to tell if she had his astounding male beauty, but pull a gown over her head, scrub her face, and he would wager she’d be a stunner, a lady to stop the male population of London in its collective tracks.

She said, a wealth of disappointment in her voice, “I suppose you won’t speak of Lucinda. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly, even though—”

“It’s best you don’t finish that thought, Miss Carrick. I believe I can see your father in you now.”

“Glory be,” she said and rolled her eyes. “But you might as well be honest, Mr. Sherbrooke. My father is the most beautiful man ever born, to my mind more beautiful than you two. As for myself, I gave it up years ago.”

James said, fascinated, “Gave what up?”

“Thinking I would ever have even a dollop of the beauty he has.”

Jason said, “I suppose you could take off that ridiculous hat again, then we could see.”

She didn’t say a word, but her horse snorted.

Fact was, Jason thought, she could have looked like an old crone and it wouldn’t have mattered. He said, “I’m buying Lyon’s Gate, Miss Carrick, not you. It seems to me you’d be better off buying something closer to home. Where is your father’s estate?”

“Carrick Grange is in Northumberland. It isn’t particularly good horse country.”

“Fine, then buy something close to Ravensworth. How about some property in America, near Baltimore? You could race Jessie Wyndham.”

“No, it’s Lyon’s Gate for me. Get used to the idea, Mr. Sherbrooke. It’s mine.”

James felt his brother stiffen beside him, and since he knew Jason as well as he knew himself, and he knew bloodshed was close, he said before Jason could leap on her, “Do you have step-siblings, Miss Carrick?”

She nodded and shoved her old hat so low on her head, she nearly covered her eyes. “Yes, I have three stepbrothers and one stepsister, the youngest. We’re a large family, as the dolt here could tell you if he ever applied his brain to anything other than getting women into bed, and racing horses.”

Jason looked ready to leap, James thought, followed by throwing her into the dead flower bed. He said rather loudly, “Then there are step-siblings who will carry on the Carrick shipping tradition?”

“You are certainly nosy, my lord.”

“He’s trying to keep me from pulling you off that brute’s back and throwing you in that horse trough, Miss Carrick.”

“It’s empty.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You just try it, Jason Sherbrooke. Charlemagne would pound his hooves into your belly.”

James cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to tell me about your step-siblings, Miss Carrick.”

“Very well. Go ahead and protect him. He probably needs it. He is on the puny side, isn’t he?” Since both men looked at her like she was a moron, which maybe she was in this particular instance, Hallie gave it up. “Very well, my father and mother are building very few sailing vessels now. It’s all steamships, and that is a very different thing indeed. Can you imagine, it takes only two weeks to voyage from Baltimore to Portsmouth on a steamship? It was closer to six weeks when I was a little girl.”

“Progress is everywhere,” James said to his twin. “There are gaslights in most all the public buildings in London now.”

“London is behind. Gaslights are simply everywhere in Baltimore, my father tells me,” Hallie said. Since all she got for that remark was a raised eyebrow from James, she continued. “If you must know, my lord, I have one stepbrother, Dev, only thirteen, but I know he will be a very accomplished shipbuilder by the time he’s twenty. My oldest stepbrother, Carson, will run the company one day, and my youngest stepbrother, Eric, is only ten but still, he’s sailing mad. My sister, Louisa, wants to write novels. However, she’s only nine years old, a bit early to know if her stories will improve.”

Jason said. “I know your step-siblings. They are friends with the Wyndham children. Whenever I was close by, Louisa would spin a tale for me. She always told me she wanted me to be the hero of all her novels, and that there would be at least one hundred since she planned to write until she croaks over her quill at the turn of the century. She’ll have me perform deeds of derring-do and rescue ladies from villains, starting with her, she hopes, when she grows up.”

Hallie rolled her yes. “Louisa doesn’t know any villains. The thought of my father letting a villain get near her is about as likely as a week passing in England without rain.”

“A novelist, Louisa has given me to understand, can spin villains out of red yarn if she wishes to.”

She looked him up and down. “I must write Louisa about losing her perspective over a pretty face, wide shoulders, and a flat belly.”

CHAPTER 6